


[REDACTED]

by UWotMaTe



Category: Banana Bus Squad
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-09-01 13:37:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20258974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UWotMaTe/pseuds/UWotMaTe
Summary: The town's small, the people are good hearted, and we welcome you with open arms. We hope that you feel proud to call us home as we are to welcome you into ours.Welcome to Warcrest, North Carolina.Smitty is a young journalist hoping to follow the story of the Maux Family Murder and instead finds something a tad more sinisterPeople it wouldn't let me addJC the CasterMarskman





	1. Entry One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jhabois](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jhabois/gifts).

> Jhabois, your work still inspires me and I wanted to thank you for that <3
> 
> This one's for fun. I got substantially high off pain killers following my fifth hit and run and I think I broke my imagination so we'll see how this goes :D
> 
> This fic's like super smash Bros. Everyone's here. Everyone. You want AU's?? I'll give you AU's! Coffee shop! Highschool! Mafia! Monster! Monster Hunter? Monster hunters! Soul mates! Super heroes! There's not an au I haven't some how worked into this son of a bitch. 
> 
> However in order to make this work it is going to be in primarily 1st person. However, not in most traditional ways as seen on Wattpad (John's POV) and what have you.  
Smitty's an investigator. And we get to discover what he found through his research. Essentially each chapter is another collected piece of evidence. It's told chronologically through Smitty's findings, not story. Hopefully it'll make sense later
> 
> It might be bad, most of my work is, but we'll see. We'll see.
> 
> Skipped story tags and most relationship tags cause character tags was too many. This was long and I'm sorry

Warcrest Post  
[REDACTED]

How to's and What to do's: Get Settled in a New Town.  
By [REDACTED]

Growing up in these modern times allots children many more freedoms than the older generations. For instance, children now can send mass messages to friends found all over the world with the simple press of the send button on some mobile device whereas the kids my age had to hop on our one geared bike, pedal five blocks down, knock on their door and sheepishly ask their already grumpy mom if they could play. It's something to be celebrated really. We've become more social now than we ever were before. The younger generations are blessed now with the ability to expand their social circles beyond time and distance. Despite my years, my childhood had the starts of this modern connectivity. My parents, not yet accustomed to the change, were of course suspicious and thus forbade me from using them. And by them I mean the land line we had. I was not to touch it. I was not to answer it. The land line, the door, the windows, and the typewriter were all forbidden. 

My parents had religiously told me that the world was filled with vile people with only the intent to harm me. It didn't help that at the time I was being raised in what I can easily describe as the shittiest part of Chicago at the time. I'd fall asleep to the blistering pops of gun fire. That I could handle. My parents didn't seemed worried about it either. But Lord help us if there was a knock at the door, or if that phone rang, or some one was spotted standing on the end of the street…

The kids at school had joked that I had criminals for parents. Tax fraud! Surely they were hiding from the IRS. And as time passed, I slowly began connecting the dots and logically I was unable to fathom any other possible reason why they were so strict about where I was, what I interacted with, and how they reacted to the simplest of normal societal things. 

My family was notorious for dropping everything and moving halfway across state without notice. Between the ages 10 and 11, we'd moved in and out of 15 different houses. Don't get me started on cars. I cannot count that high, please, I'm begging you, stop asking how many cars my family had during my youth, I don't know. I'm talking to you, D.S!

All this to say is, not to root my own horn, but I consider myself to be pretty well versed in what to do upon getting to a new town. 

It can be tough for some people. You're leaving behind everything, your friends, job, home, favorite past time spots, memories, it's a lot. And for those who don't move very often, it can be a painful process. Having lived near enough to see the lake no matter where we moved, moving to the landlocked town that is Warcrest, North Carolina was a solid kick to the nuts for me. I do however love how many stars I can see now, but the trees and the mountains, and the stars still don't captivate me nearly as much as that stupid lake did. I don't even want to talk about the pizza. I'm sure you'll find yourself missing many aspects of your old home. 

But however painful it is to move, it can also be refreshing, and freeing. Congratulations! You've found yourself in a prosperous enough position to start over. New job, new friends, new school, new printing press, new scenery. 

So here's what to do. Find yourself a good method of transportation. Chicago was littered with busses and taxis. Due to some family issues, I walked everywhere I went. But it doesn't take long to learn that Warcrest is nearly void of such services. We have two bus routes. One we're not even certain is real because no bus has ever been seen driving along it. Because of the mere number of us, a taxi isn't a lucrative business and can't be found. But nothing is placed near enough for it to be worth walking to and from everything. I tried to walk from my house up on my hill to the press, to the nearest shoe store (for obvious reasons), back home and that took me a solid 8 hours to do. The hills here aren't kind to any one with knee, back, or hip problems either. You could bike, but the aforementioned hills will surely discourage that too. Besides, there aren't many biking paths here. Hiking? That we have. Just not biking. Your essentially limited to a car here. Unless, of course, you can somehow manage to find yourself living in one of the homes near every necessary business. With the amount of people who keep leaving, that shouldn't be too hard. 

But this leads me into your next thing on this little to-do list. Find every business that might be useful to you. Warcrest is primarily run by small mom and pop shops. It took me about two days to realize that there isn't a single major corporation or company in this little place. No Walmart, no Target, no Pay less, No Papa John's. There is, instead, Molly's Mart over on the corner of Garland and Kendal (turn at the light there's no other entrance), Shopping Cart on Maple and Flower just passed the Brother's Bagels and the Roasted Cups Coffee shop. And while it's not Chicago pizza, Lisa's Pizzeria does make some excellent pies! 

Take a day to explore. Dedicate a whole day to wander in and out of shops to see what all they have and the prices to expect. This will also help gauge the distance between where you now live and the essentials. It's best to do this as early as possible just in case you come to the realization that you've left your coffee machine, your favorite set of pans, your father's old typewriter, gun, and or your only pair of shorts behind so that you can quickly and easily require a replacement. 

Sorry, Dad. 

Thirdly, introduce yourself a bit. Just a bit though. A nice secluded life where you live entirely alone is depressing. Trust me. You might find that you have a phone, don't be afraid to add some new numbers. The people here are kind and close knit. It's a small community and everyone knows someone somehow. 

While I've done excellently to remain faceless here, you shouldn't. The longer you hold off on saying hi and acting friendly the harder it's going to be to get accepted into the social groups. The only reason I'm welcomed is because my little news column happens to be a popular read at breakfast. Believe me, there's a friend to find anywhere you look.

John who works as a barista down at the Roasted Cup Coffee shop, for example, is a wonderful man who always has a joke sure to brighten your spirits. Other John who works in the Warcrest Post office is a delightfully optimistic man. Craig, the receptionist at the printing press, is one of the most sincere people here with a steady head on his shoulders. Evan, the KBPL radio host never fails to lift people's spirits on dark days with some new toons, which reminds me of Luke, the weekend DJ who's a very loyal man and willing to fight for you if need be. Thanks Luke, I still owe you so write me when and how I can make that up!

And not to worry, younger folk, I haven't forgotten you. Pineline High is a wonderful school with impressive graduation rates and stocked quite heavily with scholarship opportunities. There's a 1 to 12 teacher to student ratio. The sports teams are granted plenty of cross country competitions as well as the band and some art classes. There's no shortage of electives to choose from. Wood working, ceramics, photography, intro to radio, choir, journalism, creative writing, welding, and many more. It's the only highschool we have but it's well funded and Brock, the intro to human anthropology teacher is the kindest man on the planet hands down. Principal Tyler Wilds doesn't mess around when it comes to your education and safety. Don't be intimidated by his size and sometimes alarming outbursts, he's goofy and moves with only good intentions. As for the kids themselves I don't know. I don't make a habit of hanging around 15 year olds. But I don't have a doubt in my mind that you won't find an elective class filled with like minded others who'd readily welcome you into their group. 

Complete those three things and I'm sure everything else will fall into place around you. It's not hard. Not here at least. The town's small, the people are good hearted, and we welcome you with open arms. We hope that you feel proud to call us home as we are to welcome you into ours.

Welcome to Warcrest, North Carolina.


	2. Entry 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, the weird perspectives I was talking about.

07/14/20XX  
Hyper Warp Moving Company  
To me  
v

To Jaron Smith,

We regret to inform you that due to an error with our company's guiding system that your moving truck will be delayed for another three days. We are sorry for any problems this may have caused and are working to get this fixed as soon as possible. Please call us at (***) 738 1500 for any questions or concerns.

Sincerely, Hyper Warp Moving Company

_____

07/19/20XX  
Hyper Warp Moving Company  
To me  
v

To Jaron Smith, 

We regret to inform you that the moving truck on route has been temporarily set behind schedule. Please update your desired address at Hyperwarpmoveco.com or call us at (***) 738 1500. We are immensely sorry for any problems this may have caused and are working to get this fixed as soon as possible. Please contact us with any questions or concerns.

Sincerely, Hyper Warp Moving Company

_____

07/25/20XX  
Hyper Warp Moving Company  
To me  
v

To Jaron Smith,

Your moving truck is on route and should reach its destination by no later than 07/27/20XX. We apologize for the delays and appreciate your patience and cooperation. As a token of our appreciation use code Hyper for a 25% off discount on your next move. Please call us at (***) 738 1500 for any questions or concerns.

Sincerely, Hyper Warp Moving Company

_____

7/29/20XX  
Hyper Warp Moving Company  
To me  
v

To Jaron Smith,

Your truck has arrived! Thank you for using Hyper Warp Moving Co. For this move. Please rate us at Hyperwarpmoveco.com.  
Please call us at (***) 738 1500 for any questions or concerns.

Sincerely, Hyper Warp Moving Company

________

7/30/20XX  
Hyper Warp Moving Company  
To me  
v

To Jaron Smith,

We have received your complaint and would like to rectify the issue. "Moving truck has not arrived :( Day ten and I still don't have my bed and stuff :((( y u haf be lie?" Has been looked into. Moving truck #111-55489-17 is being tracked. Are you still at 8245 W Vineyard St, Warcrest, NC, 27012? Please update your desired location at Hyperwaepmoveco.com or contact us at (***) 738 1500. 

Our sincerest apologies, Hyper Warp Moving Company.

_____

08/04/20XX  
Hyper Warp Moving Company  
To me  
v

To Jaron Smith,  
Your truck has arrived! Thank you for using Hyper Warp Moving Co. For this move. Please rate us at Hyperwarpmoveco.com.  
Please call us at (***) 738 1500 for any questions or concerns.

Sincerely, Hyper Warp Moving Company

______

8/08/20XX  
Hyper Warp Moving Company  
To me  
v

To Jaron Smith,  
Your truck has arrived! Thank you for using Hyper Warp Moving Co. For this move. Please rate us at Hyperwarpmoveco.com.  
Please call us at (***) 738 1500 for any questions or concerns.

Sincerely, Hyper Warp Moving Company

______

08/10/20XX  
Hyper Warp Moving Company  
To me  
v

To Jaron Smith,  
Your truck has arrived! Thank you for using Hyper Warp Moving Co. For this move. Please rate us at Hyperwarpmoveco.com.  
Please call us at (***) 738 1500 for any questions or concerns.

Sincerely, Hyper Warp Moving Company

_____

8/11/20XX  
Hyper Warp Moving Company  
To me  
v

To Jaron Smith,  
Your truck has arrived! Thank you for using Hyper Warp Moving Co. For this move. Please rate us at Hyperwarpmoveco.com.  
Please call us at (***) 738 1500 for any questions or concerns.

Sincerely, Hyper Warp Moving Company

______

Me  
To Hyper Warp Moving Company  
v

Attached Image:  
*A young man, shaggy black hair, deep frown, stands in front of five moving trucks parked in front of a one story, blue house. A neighbor is walking the dog in the background staring perplexed at the sight as two men upload a couch from one truck and two more men unload an identical couch from another.* 

Thank you for sending me my things, however late it was. Um...thank you for sending me...5…?? Of my things???   
5 stars. :D

Thanks, Jaron Smith

Me  
To Warcrest Community Board  
v

To whom it may concern, I have recently acquired about 4 times as many household items than needed and would like to know if I am allowed to host a garage sale of this scale. It is an absurd amount of items and it would be a waste to throw them all out. I don't want to over load donation centers with my things. 

Thank you, Jaron Smith

___

Warcrest Community Board  
To me  
v

Jaron Smith,  
Garage sales are greatly encouraged and if you are unable to get all items cleared from the property in the fashion that you'd like, we have a junk yard you can bring things to over at 5763, Plaid st. We don't charge drop offs. Thank you for contacting us to ask first, we appreciate the initiative. 

Regards, Warcrest Community Board.

_____

Me  
To Warcrest Community Board  
v

Attached Image:* a young man looking quite perturbed about an inordinate amount of beds, TV's, couches, dressers, book cases, dishes, and clothes among many other things*

Dear Warcrest Community Board,  
Breh.

Sincerely, Jaron Smith

_____

Warcrest Community Board  
To me  
v

Jaron Smith,  
Understood. 

Regards, Warcrest Community Board

_____

Warcrest Community Board  
To me  
v

Attention Warcrest Community member! We are excited to announce a large garage sale over at 8245 W Vineyard St, Warcrest, NC, 27012. Don't be shy and stop on by.

Regards, Warcrest Community Board  
Do not reply to this automated message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did those emails look legit enough? Don't know! But it was fun to write


	3. Entry 3

START TAPE  
000ZK0019

DATE DELETED

*Small rustling. Hiccuping cough. Infant crying softly. Sound of steps and a creak.*

Unknown: Shhh. Shhhh. No no no no. No don't cry. Crying's for babies. Shhhh. Here- oh! Stinky baby! Yuck! Stinky baby gets ridiculed relentlessly by grumpy, tired, babysitter. Yes she does! You stinky! Stinky baby! Stinky baby is....puking on me again. Bad baby! No stop! Stop puking on me! No! This was my last clean work shirt you little shit!

*A once soothed child begins crying again.*

Unknown: Alright. Ok. Ok. No stop it with that. Stop. It's ok. One day you'll stop doing this. And then, roughly around highschool, you'll start again and never stop. Ever. No? Not working? Alright fine. Let's...let's find one of mom's books. Yeah, does that sound nice? Want a bedy time story? Let's see here.... Scrap books....? Full of... Old news...paper...scraps? Maux family found murdered in a motel....oh boy. Not that one. Oh! Oh! Here's one! The Witch and the Farmer! Yeah? Wanna read this one? Ok. Alright. Here we go. 

Once, in a land far far away there was a small town, with small people, and one small farm with a small farmer. The little farmer was born very long ago on her little farm. She grew up with the little cows and the little chickens. She loved her little farm with all of her little heart.

Why is everything so little? Right! Sorry.

The little-theres that word again!-The little farmer walked into town. The town said, "Little Farmer, you work and you work and you work! You work all day, you never play! Come dance with us tonight, what do you say?"

And the little farmer sighed. 

"No, I can't. There's work to be done, no time to stop. I've stuff to do that cannot wait! I must make sure everything is tip top!"

And she waved goodbye and home she went. She fed her sheep and she fed her hens. And quietly she went to bed.

Once, in a land not so far, there was a little mountain, with a little forest, with a little cottage, with a little witch. The little witch was born long long ago in the little forest. She grew up making brews and speaking spells. She loved her little cottage with all her life, but felt that something wasn't quite right.

"Me," she said to her self, "You're growing old. Life is so short and you waste it away, by working and working and working, no time to play! One day off wouldn't hurt. Tomorrow I'll head into town and dance the night away."

So she took some powered and threw it in a pot, mixed it in with some flour and some slime from a frog. Then she mixed it and boiled it and added it to her stew. She took a bite and younger she grew. Grey hair ran a golden brown. She smiled, grabbed a bag of a potion or two, put on her cloak and off she hopped. She walked all night and walked all morning. She walked and walked and didn't stop.

The little farmer woke up early. She watered her wheat and harvested some pumpkins. She grabbed her tools and fixed her fence. When along down the street wandered the young little witch. She smiled and waved and hopped on over to chat.

"Good morning! I love your hat!"

"Good morning, yes, thank you-"

"I'm sorry to bother you, love, but I'm a tad lost and was hoping you could help."

The little farmer dusted off her hands and kindly lead the witch into town. They got to talking and the little farmer found that she liked the little witch. She liked showing her around. 

The hours passed and the day became dark. The Farmer had spent so much time helping the witch that she hadn't noticed the time go by. 

"Miss Farmer," asked the witch, "Would you join me for a dance?"

"Me?" The Farmer gawked. She shook her head and stepped away. "No, no. No dancing must be done. There's work on the farm and I've done none! Besides. You're young and nice. I'm sure a pretty thing like you could find someone else with a younger face than mine."

"Oh," the witch chirped, "but dear, I'm not young." She took some berries from her bag and ate one fast. The blonde in her hair began to fade and was replaced with grey. She smiled at the Farmer. "Forget the work for a day. Dance with me. Stay."

The Farmer couldn't say no. She liked the witch, she liked her lot. So she took her hand and the two danced till the sun came up. Then the little witch and the little farmer walked back to the farm where the witch helped the Farmer with her potions and her charms. 

The Farmer loved the witch with all of her little heart. She asked the witch to stay, to share the farm, to dance now and again. But the witch could not. She said that her cottage on her mountain wasn't like this place. It moved and changed. She could not stay. 

"But it's ok! I can leave you with a gift, one that will keep you with me forever and always." So she took the farmer's palm, and some red ink. She drew a small drawing and kissed it once.

"Whenever you feel lonely or think of me, rub the drawing and know that I'll be there, thinking of you. Now, I really must be going. There's work to be done, there's so much to do. But always know that where ever I go, I will always love you."

The Farmer stood by the fence and watched the witch leave. She felt sad, and lonely. She felt like her stomach was full of bees. She didn't work for the rest of the day. She went to bed, sad. With her head on her pillow she dreaded the dawn of the next day. Then, on her palm, the drawing began to glow! 

"Farmer," it whispered, "I love you, I hope you know."

And the Farmer was happy she took the day off to wander and dance. She was happy she stopped to help the witch at first glance. She was happy to have that drawing on her palm. The little farmer was happy for as much as her life was long.

I forgot how long that story was. Could you imagine though? Meeting someone and just falling in love? Sounds stupid. I'll tell you what kid, I am never falling in love. And word from the wise? You won't either. Now how about I put you back in your crib and you stop crying. And then I'm going to go watch some more murder documentaries. Sound good? Yeah, I thought so.

*Soft creaking and rustling. Soft shushing. Recessing steps. A small thud and several cursing. Ten seconds of silence. Creak. Two and a half hours of silence. Sudden thud. Wind whistles.*

Stranger: Oh shit-! Turn back!

Stranger two: what the fuck do you mean turn back?

Stranger: there's a fucking kid in here! Turn. Back!

Stranger two: a kid? How old?

Stranger: why does that matter? Not this house. Go next door.

Stranger two: we've been staking out this house for weeks! How old is the kid?

Stranger: it's a small baby.

Stranger two: roll it over and just...smother it with a blanket or something.

Stranger: what the fuck is wrong with you? We are not killing a baby!

Stranger two: our orders are firm. No interruptions. No witnesses. No distractions. Here, move, I'll do it!

*Rustling and soft thuds. Child crying.*

Stranger: shit! Stop-

Stranger two: shut- shut up. Shut up! Babies die all the time at this age. It'll be fine. SIDS or whatever.

*Muffled child cries. Creak.*

Unknown: who the fuck are you? *Louder* Who the fuck are you?! Get the fuck away from-!

*Gun fire. Child screams. Loud thud. Gasping. Silence aside from the wailing child. Screaming continues uninterrupted for eighteen seconds.*

Stranger two: you just killed a kid.

Stranger: oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck ohfuckohfuckohfuck oh FUCK! FUCK! What do I do? This wasn't part of the plan! Oh shit. Oh fuck! Oh god! Ok ok ok, grab! Grab his feet, I'll get his head, we'll uh...we'll bury him in the woods-

Stranger two: holy shit! We don't have time for this. There's blood everywhere. At least with the baby I wasn't leaving any evidence! We-John-!

END TAPE  
000ZK0019

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehee first blood! Yesss


	4. Entry 4

Warcrest Post  
[REDACTED]

How to's and What to do's: When You Lose a Loved One   
By: REDACTED

I was barely 11, growing up in a crowded, dirty little neighborhood in Chicago. I woke up late. My parents were arguing in the next room over, softly. They were whisperinging. They were always whispering. But this time their whispering was odd, it was harsh, strained, like they were reciting some old curse better left unsaid. When I passed by their room to shower my mother stopped me. She cupped my cheeks and kissed my forehead gently. She told me, very sincerely, that she loved me dearly, and that no matter what should happen, that would never change. My father watched her. He sniffles and turned away and it startled me. I'd never seen my father cry. She pat me on my head and sent me on my way. 

Like always, my older sister dropped me off. She blasted some lady Gaga in an attempt to embarrass me. And as usual, it worked. I moved through me day without a thought in the world that the next day would be any different and I was happy. 

Fourth period, last class before lunch, algebra. I was seated beside a snooty girl who's name I can no longer recall and her annoying boyfriend. The two were jabbering on about some other girl they saw kissing some other boy as if it was the most sinful and disgusting thing in the world. I remember being annoyed because I was actually trying to pass the damn class but despite my best efforts found myself strangely drawn in. Not so much on their conversation but on the paper football stuck in her hair that neither were acknowledging. 

He laughed a little too loudly and my half deaf teacher turned and automatically assumed that I had been the disrespectful troublemaker. She thundered over, slapping her booklet down on my desk startling all three of us. Just as she opened her mouth to shout at me until I cried again, the door to her class room opened and in stepped the vice principal. He called my name softly, putting a hand on my teacher's shoulder to silently ask her to step down. 

I followed him out into the hall. The superintendent was stood outside the counselor's office. She smiled gently at me. We never got along. I was extraordinarily good at starting fights, finishing others, and my club's newspaper column often included not so subtle innuendos. So her gentle grin gave away that the second I would step into that stupid, overwhelmingly colored office, I'd hate what ever I was told for the rest of my life. I was right.

The adults joined me. They asked me to sit down. I remember thinking that the officer was unnecessary as I hadn't done anything yet. They sat me down. The vice principal offered me some tissues. And the first words out of the officer's mouth were simple and to the point.

"I'm sorry for your loss, son."

There are no good ways to describe what it feels like to lose a loved one. Or two. Or six. If you have had the terrible misfortune of knowing exactly what I mean, then my heart bleeds with you. I am terribly sorry. Do not hesitate to write me. 

For those blessed enough not to know; until I was five, I slept with a moon shaped night light. I was convinced that in total and complete darkness was essentially death and being completely emerged in it meant I was dead. One night, the bulb flickered out. The soft blue glow vanished and I counted the seconds down wishing and regretting and weeping. My sister came in and comforted me back to sleep. Losing a loved one is that light dying, leaving you in the darkness, but a beloved sister doesn't rush to your rescue. The comforting warm yellow light from the hallway doesn't chase away your fears. You're just stuck there, weeping and regretting. The darkness doesn't ever go away, your eyes adjust every now and again, sometimes you can make out shapes and even find colors, but it's always there. And with every person you lose, it just gets darker. You can't make out those colors anymore. The shapes you once recognized as furniture are formless monsters. Your light died. 

It's never coming back. 

What do you do? 

You ignore those jackals who tell you that time heals all wounds. It doesn't. It numbs the pain. Never for long. They'll say it all. They're in a better place. They would want you to move on. They would want you to be happy. They wouldn't want you to embark on this path of joulistic vigilantism. They say the sadness is all in your head and to make it go away to just be happy. And saying ignore them isn't helpful because it's nearly impossible. I took to completely isolating myself, and this genuinely hurt me in the long run. 

Which leads me to my next point. You'll want to be alone. That's ok. But to a point. People are out there who want to help and want to see you happy again and happiness isn't impossible. It may seem like it at the time. It's ok to be sad around people. It's ok to be angry. Try, as hard as you can, not to take your valid emotions out on those reaching out. They love you. They miss you. Don't be afraid to reach out back. 

Let yourself grieve. It's natural, and nothing to be ashamed of. But recognise the signs of depression and take the necessary steps to maintain functionality. Don't strive to be happy. No one expects you to do that. It's an unrealistic goal. Getting out of bed, eating, showering every now and again, drinking water, clean clothes sometimes, getting to work. You need to be able to live. You might not want to. I didn't. But you need to. 

Your life has been set off track. You might be able to guide it back to where you want it to go, you might not. My life took an odd 180° that has somehow gotten my impossibly close to my parents in ways I cannot begin to explain. You may lose your job, that's not always bad. There's nothing more liberating than packing a tiny suitcase with what little you have, some pants, a ratty old typewriter, and a scrapbook of newspaper clippings regarding the death of your parents and siblings, and running away to your mother's hometown to live alone in a small house on a lonely hill with a shitty car. 

You lost a loved one. Your life has been flipped upside down and inside out. You've been plunged into a world of darkness. It's going to hurt. You'll get through it someway, somehow, sometime. We're here for you over at the Warcrest printing press and post. It's going to be ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written at 3 am on a work day and school night. Yay! Genuinely cannot tell if any of this was coherent.   
No beta readers, we illiterate up in this b and unashamed of it


	5. Entry 5

Voice mail(15)

Most recent:

•Shit face

08/17  
00:00:41

"Hey man! Uh.... Sorry-I-uh. *Clears throat* We're all worries about you and uh- we know you need some time and some space...... Mom says you're always welcome over. You know. If-if you need it. Just.....promise you won't do anything stupid? Like..beat shit up, but don't you know....Amway, call me or text me or what ever....bye."

•Birth  
8/17  
00:01:21

"Hey baby, it's Momma. The school called, said you weren't there. I don't expect you to go so soon but please let me know where you are. We love you. We'll be home soon, sweety, just picking up your suite. Uh, were doing pork chops for dinner. We'll save you some if you can bring yourself to eat again. Yeah.... Just....tell me where you are when you can. Love you."

•Dumb ass  
8/17  
00:00:13

"Hey! You weren't at school today and we were just worried. I'm dropping off your homework at your house. You don't have to answer the door, your mom gave me a key. Feel better soon."

•UNKNOWN NUMBER  
8/16  
00:00:51

"...*18 seconds of silence and heavy breaking followed by seconds of low, breathy laughter that grows progressively louder and more hysterical.* I told you, champ. I fuckin told you. Ha! Ohh. You're in it now. Yes you are. Now don't you go hidin' somewhere, champ, you know I'll find ya. And we both know I don't like huntin'. *The remainder of the voicemail is just the raving laughter of a lunatic. Ends suddenly*"

•RESTRICTED NUMBER  
8/14  
00:0016

"You stupid bitch! I told you, I specifically told you not to go through with it! Alright. It's alright. I'll try to slow him down, you need to go. Get out of town. There's a map in-"

•Ass Face  
8/13  
00:00:09

"For fucks sake answer your phone. You're scaring us. And...I don't....just...call us, one of us, back. Please. Fuck-"

•Ass Face  
8/13  
00:00:17

"Answer the fucking phone! How many messages do I have to leave? If I don't get a text or a call back I'm sending Carson to your place and he has our permission to break in. Call. Me. Back."

•Ass Face  
8/13  
00:00:15

"You're stressing me out. I just want to know you're ok. For God's sake can you give us that much? Please? Just mark my texts as read, anything! Fuck I don't care any more! I need to know your still at least alive."

•Ass Face  
8/13  
00:00:42

"Hey, we just heard about what happened and everyone here is sorry and we're all worried about you. We're all here for you, ok? The counclor has given us permission to check our phones so don't worry about interupting class because it's ok. We. We're so sorry. Anyway, just call me back and let me know you're ok. Love you."

•UNKNOWN NUMBER  
8/13  
00:00:03

"Alright. I'm in. See ya soon, champ."

•UNKNOWN NUMBER  
8/12  
00:00:30

"Not answering your phone, huh? Bold move for a dead kid. Tell you what. Get me what I need and we have a deal. I don't need much for this. Seven bayberry wax candles in burned. Something belonging to the deceased. A match. Just one. And three bones from a cat. Put them in a wooden box. Leave them in the Foreman's office in the abandoned mill. Look forward to doin business with ya."

•RESTRICTED NUMBER  
8/12  
00:00:23

"I don't know how you got that number or what you think that slime ball can do but you're I'm way over your head. I know you're hurting. That's understandable. But this? This won't fix anything! Please call me before you do anything stupid."

•Shit head  
8/12  
00:00:03

"Just heard about JC. Call me back."

•Birth  
8/12  
00:00:05

"Oh my God. Baby? Sweety? Can you- Your father and I are very worried right now. Where are you? Oh my God. Please-"

•JC  
8/11  
00:01:12

"Hey, do you think there's a life after death? I'm watching some zombie movies and do you think that they have a soul? Like, is this mindless flesh eating thing also thing about how much they miss their old boyfriend? I wanna watch that. I wanna watch the zombie movie about the zombie who's mad because they missed the season finale to breaking bad. So all of their zombie friends are like, 'common Ben, let's go eat Sasha, she's still alive. And Ben's like...nah guys. I gotta know if Walter survives and lives happily or if he dies. The whole movie is about how they don't wanna be a zombie in the traditional way and it ends with the zombie finally seeing the end of breaking bad with their friends eating some dude. You know what? Bad-bad movie idea. Terrible. See? This is why we make such a good team. God. I hate that you're graduating soon, I'm going to be so bored! No one else can match- hang on I think.....I think someone's in the hous-"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck these are shorter than what I'm used to. It makes me mad. But it doesn't go as smooth with more words. It sounds...way to scripted. Ah well.


	6. Entry 6

Toonz: "Good morning Warcrest, North Carolina! It's DJ Toonz in the air with you today joined, of course as I am every Friday, by your usual host, Rynx! Now- Rynx, how are you today? You look tired."

Rynx: "Ah, yes. It's because I am, Toonz."

Toonz: "Aight, so, from what I can gather from last night's ...rambling texts… you got smashed."

Rynx: "Yes."

Toonz: "And now, judging by that tall glass of coffee, that box of pizza, and the sheer amount of painkillers you just swallowed, you are stuck with the mother of all hangovers."

Rynx: "Please stop shouting."

Toonz: "Can't! I never learned how to use an indoor voice! But, I can give you the freedom of taking it easy today. Ain't I just the best mother *cartoon sound effect* friend you've ever had?"

Rynx: "No."

Toonz: "That's what I thought. So we got a tasty treat lined up for y'all this morning. We have, as always, a lovely game of would you rather, our dumb fact of the day, stupid stories, and we end it with what would it take. And starting at 1 we have a three hour long commercial free break of music, just for y'all. Oh! And little reminder, keep an ear out for our secret *distant whisper from left to right chanting secret* key word for your chance to win tickets to see Black Fold next April. Now don't y'all worry, I don't know them either, but who can say no to free concert tickets? Rynx! What's today's secret *distant whisper from left to right chanting secret* word for the day?"

Rynx: "Today's word is: curmudgeon. No, I don't know what it means and I sincerely doubt I'll ever have to."

Toonz: "Damn straight. Now, Evan. Our fans have been calling in and we have so many good would you rathers that it was nearly impossible for me to pick one so today we're doing three. You ready?"

Rynx: "Oh god-"

Toonz: "Would you rather...have seven fingers on each hand ...or seven fingers on each foot?"

Rynx: "Oh no! No god! Why? Think-! Toonz, think of the shoes you'd never be able to wear! I mean… look at these!"

Toonz: "Those are nice, I'll admit."

Rynx: "Never in a million years would I be able to wear these with extra toes. There's no room. The show would get all bent outta shape. It would kill all of my dates. They'd get undressed, I'd get undressed, they look at my freak feet and they puke. I wouldn't even have a chance with the foot fetishists out there cause no one wants 14 toes!"

Toonz: "So...hands?"

Rynx: "..... Now listen. I have five fingers on each and already. I don't even know what the point of these two are. I can function without them just fine-"

Toonz: "That's not true."

Rynx: "No?"

Toonz: "No. Remember when you got those paper cuts in the *snaps fingers* the the, what the *cartoon sound effect* do you call it? The armpits of the fingers?"

Rynx: "What? Ew."

Toonz: "The these. The this part."

Rynx: "That's...very helpful for our listeners."

Toonz: "I know!"

Rynx: "*Hisses*"

Toonz: *Softer*"I know. But, the point is, you got paper cuts there and you were pretty much useless for the rest of the week."

Rynx: "This is true. But ...that's just too many useless fingers and no gloves out there could warm my hands."

Toonz: "You'd get a lot more paper cuts."

Rynx: "God- I would too! I would be that guy with the seven fingers per hand and just way too many paper cuts."

Toonz: "You could finally palm a basketball."

Rynx: "Yes. But could I play the base?"

Toonz: "Dude. Imagine the chords!"

Rynx: "Yeah. No. Seven toes."

Toonz: "Seven toes?"

Rynx: "Seven toes."

Toonz: "Alright. Alright. I'd take the fingers. Think about the *cartoon sound effect*. Yeah? Yeah? Two in the pink one in the stink? How about-"

Rynx: "Alllright! Let's cut to commercial!"

Toonz: "Welcome back! Rynx has excused himself. He is not feeling too hot. I think it's more than a hangover. As they say, the show must go on so we'll just pretend he's here and just sleeping. The next would you rather was: would you rather marry someone you love but doesn't love you back or marry someone who loves you but you don't love back? Huh. Well. That's tough. Look. I think that if I found someone who loves me and spent time with them, I could learn to love them too. You know? I mean, they love me, so the hard part is already out of the way. Yeah. That...that sounds nice. Hey, any of y'all who hits me up today proclaiming your love, can it. I, much like my co-host who's dying on the toilet right now, am taken. It's young, but I think I have something. I hope so.

Toonz: "Hang on, the station manager is trying to get my attention. Here's an ad while I go deal with this."

*Crappy jingle distortedly chimes. "New from Doritos it's Crunchies! Delicious, bite sized chips *weird voice interrupts saying 'cheesy!'* add a healthy and exciting twist to your morning routine! Remember, when you have the munchies, it's crunchies! Crunchies is not partnered with Doritos. Do not mix crunchies with- *the add stops suddenly**

"I'm back and with…..news. This week has been...hectic. We've had the large garage sale featuring our most recent Warcrestee. Welcome Smitty, and then that same night, a kid got killed while babysitting for the Mr. Brock, the Pineline High Anthropology teacher. And now I've just been told that two kids are currently missing. If anyone has seen either Ezra *the radio crackles* or Alina *static* to call in with their whereabouts. Their parents are worried sick as it has been two days since their disappearance. Rynx is back…… no yeah, I got it here. Go home. Alright."

*Seven seconds of silence*

"I think that for today we're gonna skip some things. Let's bring you into some music."

*Stylo by Gorillaz plays*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, these really are under 1,000 words huh? I suppose it's fast? But....at what cost? At. What. Cost?


	7. Passage 1

I felt it necessary to start this with a little bit of context. My name is Jaron Smith. I was born 1997 in a small town in Canada. I was uncertain what to do with myself and was moving through college like a zombie. I took journalism just to pass the time. My professor was....well he was different. He was young, just barely older than the rest of us. Hell half of his class was actually older than he was. But I'd never before met an older soul. His gaze was far away and dreamy. He used to say odd things that made us all stop and think about just how he perceived the world. None of us were certain he thought any of this was real. He clung to newspapers to ground himself, told us that people live in their own little world and every world is carefully and routinely documented upon. No one ever looks at some one else's world with any actual interest. We glance sometimes but we don't dare linger. He said that it humbled us to look inside these other worlds, helps us understand our own. 

There were three newspapers he would always refer back to. One was the newspaper printed in his home town on his birthday. The next was the paper printed in the home town of his child. The third was the news paper printed on the day his child died. Those two were only months apart. 

I came to him for help once. I was instructed to write a story on seemingly nothing. Or rather, we had a map and some darts with our names on them and I got sent to an abandoned lot and was unable to think of anything worth writing. I was hoping to borrow some other papers for inspiration and he was the only one who had what I wanted. It was mid afternoon. The rest of my class was scattered to the wind. His classroom was quiet and dark. It took my three seconds to realize that he was softly crying, clutching onto those three newspapers. 

Suddenly I didn't need help anymore. I sat besides him and just listened to him talk. It was incredible. The day his little one was born, a tornado had wiped out a neighborhood in Kansas where his wife used to live. Several lives were lost and half a dozen people were unaccounted for. It was a terrible day. And then the day his kid died the headline had been about how a surge of adoptions had completely cleared out a puppy pound. Every last dog, young, old, dying, all of them had found loving homes. He had adopted a dog from the same pound only a year before. 

Then he thanked me. He said that he'd never shown anyone these papers, he doubted anyone would understand. In many ways, I did. And his broken hearted ramblings helped me understand the importance of journalism. People like him need something to ground themselves. Their worlds are small and newspapers such as the three soaked with tears and now unreadable were the only things now that would hold every last detail. Not much ever makes it into history books to be taught in schools. We review history to ensure we don't repeat mistakes. I wanted to provide that for others. 

He reviewed my story and agreed that I had nothing to work with. So he pulled me aside and emptied his entire collection of papers out onto the floor. He told me to pick three. These three would be the ones I'd turn to until I could justify new ones. He told me to choose wisely. I found them quickly. Three headlines.

Welcome to Warcrest, a delightful little column about moving and how to adjust to this tiny little town in North Carolina. I was drawn to this one because it made sense to me. 

Then I found one titled Death of Beloved Members of Press Ignored by Police. This one was from Chicago written in 1994 was the scathing rantings of an intern who believed that his companions and the usual writers for that paper had been murdered and that the simultaneous heart attacked didn't add up, that the rushed autopsy only confirmed his suspicion that the deaths were intentional and that the cremation went against the family's will, and erased any and all evidence, closing the case. It went on to try and get the public to empathise and raise hell by stating that the writer and her photographer husband left behind four children, the eldest being 17, the youngest had just turned eleven. 

The third was about how three of the aforementioned four children had all been killed as well. One overdosed, they'd never had a drug problem before and we're happily married. Another had hanged himself though was also reported to be an optimistic man who had just gotten a promotion, had been taking amazing strides in therapy, and couldn't tie a bow let alone a noise. The last, the daughter, was found in her bed, dressed up, hair done, make up on, best shoes. All of it. But she'd put herself neatly into bed, tucked herself in even, and died peacefully in her sleep, alarming her friends who were expecting to see her for the concert she was dressed up to go to. The fourth child was missing. At the time they suspected he was 17. He was a regular run away and often tied up with the wrong crowds. The author of this particular paper doubted heavily that the boy was dead as he regularly sent in a column for the paper. They'd included the most recent column. It was eerily familiar. I recognized the tone. It was almost a reprise. 

The next entry is that column. 

I would like to end this by stating that at that time, in that classroom in Canada with my professor, I finally found my story. My name is Jaron Smith and I am here to investigate the murders of the Maux family and maybe find the last of them. 

Much to my delight, my horror, and my excitement, upon my arrival I found a paper at the foot of my door with an all too familiar title. 

Welcome to Warcrest.


	8. Entry 6

Chicago Times  
[REDACTED]

How to's and What to do's: Say Good Bye To Your Old Home  
By [REDACTED]

Growing up in the streets allots children many more opertunities than sheltered generations. For instance, children in happy homes can walk outside of school and find they're parents patiently waiting for them in a car, smiling and waving where ass the kids on the streets didn't even stay long enough for the school day to end to so much as hope that a parent or guardian would be there waiting because they never were. It's something to be ashamed of. 72% of Chicago youths spend their free time as bullet catchers for local gangs, middlemen for local dealers, and often prostitute themselves out on the street just to get by. We've become more desperate now than ever before. And instead of trying to help the youth in lower income families to get the children off the streets, those with wealth and power build clean new fences to keep them further seperated from the wealthy. My guardians, not certain if they should pay rent or score some more drugs, often found it too expensive to put food on the table or restock the fridge. They kept a lock on it, the mother wore the key around her neck. We were not to touch the lock or the fridge. The fridge, the basement, the garage, Lacy's room, and the mailbox we're all forbidden.

Our parents had religiously told us that no matter how bad things got, they could always get worse; a lesson I learned after attempting to unlock Lacy's door when she started screaming. We tried to patch each other up in the pitch blackness of the crawl space with what little we had on ourselves at the time. 

We reported Lacy missing two weeks ago. She is just one of 308 that have gone missing this month alone and the local PD doesn't seem at all concerned or interested. 

We keep the front door unlocked. The backdoor is left open. The lights are on in the kitchen. We hope she comes home. Alive. But if the folks see those flashing lights, or spot an SUV, or so much as think that some one's a cop.... 

Her name is Lacy Kindreck. She's 13. She has red hair and blue eyes and freckles. She's 4'10 and 82lbs. No one is doing anything. If you spot her contact us at *** *** ****. God bless. 

The kids at school joke about us. They call us all sorts of things. Hood rats, thugs, termites, parasites, dogs. The list goes on. They joke that my folks were criminals and that the delinquency was genetic. I was routinely told that I had no further here beyond what usually happened to kids like us. Eventually, we all become like Lacy. And as Time passed, I slowly began to realise that they were right. But it wasn't a sudden bout of self depreciation and a lack of confidence. It was the black car with tinted windows, the tall men in mirrored sunglasses, the sudden company that followed my every move from a "safe" distance. I slowly began connecting the dots. 

As many of you are aware, my family is notorious for disapearing and suddenly dying under unlikely cercumstanses. I just lost my sister earlier this week. I had no intention in following the family tradition. 

All this to say, I believe it's time to say good bye. This will be the last column you'll read of mine. Thank you all so much for your time and attention and the scholarship. I promise not to let you down. That said, I'm saying goodbye. 

It can be tough for some people. You're leaving behind everything, your school, your friends, home, favorite places to go after long days, memories, it's a lot. And for those who don't move very often, it can be painful. 

Good byes are always painful. Some are ceremonial with cake and presents and rooms full of people all reminiscing on the good times we all had. Some are simple, good friends and relatives. Most are unsatisfactory, rushed, and unfair. Those seem to be the ones we remember most. Because we regret them the most. My eldest brother told me that he was almost done setting things up so he could get me out of this shit hole. Our last good bye was said over text. Aight, neat. That's was how I said good bye. My sister and I said good bye at our other brother's funeral. Don't die on me too, that's what she said and she left before I could respond. My other brother and I hadn't spoken since our parent's deaths. He hadn't spoken to anybody. But rumor was he was very verbose with his hands and was helping elementary school teachers translate for their deaf and heard of hearing students. The last thing we ever said to one another was so long ago I can't even remember it any more. My parents...

Saying good bye is never fair. It's never easy. Sometimes it's necessary. 

So here's how to do it. Keep things short and simple. Don't let yourself linger, it only hurts more. Smile at those who've come to see you off. Keep your head high enough to see the sky line and keep your eyes down. There's nothing more you can do now. 

Don't look back. Don't visit the lake you were almost drowned in, or the hill they found your parents car on, or the old house. Don't go inside and stumble onto that old typewriter forgotten in the attic. Don't attempt to make a hasety escape from three heavily armed men while you, yourself, are armed with a typewriter, the clothes on your back, and a shitty journal. 

Don't worry about where you are now or where you're going. It's too late for that. It's gone. That life you've lived up until this moment is behind you. Look back on it in the seconds of silence before you drift off to sleep. Make peace with those you can. Drop off your last class report, your last newspaper column, your last debts to be paid. Leave no way to follow you.

This world will try to slaughter you. It'll do what it can to keep you here, keep you trapped. It'll tempt you with memories or when times were sweet and you were safe. It'll bait you with already broken promises it says it intends to keep. 

Remember the hurt. Cling to the pain. Recite one by one the names of those you loved and lost, carve the cemetery coordinates into the soft flesh of your ankle and catch the first train coming in that takes you out. 

Scream your goodbyes into the wind as the city lights pass you by. When it leaves your tongue vow that this will be the last time. Give it up, your on the run, you've no where to go and with some luck no where to return. So say good bye to it all, you're times run out, the nights gone black, and your waters gone dry. Leave it all behind. Forget your name, you've never had one, you're on the run, don't look god in the eye, say your good byes. Curse, kick and scream. Weep until you can't breath. What ever it takes, get it all out there and live knowing that it's gone. You're gone. 

What's past is prologue. Every chapter ends. There's no time to dwell and reflect. This isn't book club. So whisper your good byes. Close your eyes. And welcome hesitantly the beginning lines of a brand new tomorrow

The children here are dying. The adults here are lying. The city's large, it's easy to get lost. The people are cruel and ill-willed. Part with it in haste and never turn back. I hope your heart bleeds just as this city does. 

Good bye, Chicago Illinois.


	9. Entry 7

[THE FOLLOWING WAS MAILED TO ME THREE WEEKS AFTER I MOVED IN, ONE WEEK AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE LOCAL TEENAGED BOY AND GIRL BEFORE I TOLD ANYONE OF MY INTEREST IN THE CASE]

*Muffled shuffling and heavy breathing. The screen in black with patches of light peaking through. A hand moved and there is a blurey mess of green that suddenly focuses showing a poorly maintained hedge. The camera man remains unseen and moves quickly and unsteadily along the hedge while muttering swears. They stop suddenly and slowly rise above the hedge to see over the fence. Yellow police tape partially covers a window and two teenagers are stood outside. One is male, with a messy head of brown hair, the other is slightly obscured and all that can be seen in a red scarf, purple coat, and ripped jeans. The boy takes a running leap towards the window and pulls himself in side before turning back to offer a hand for the second. She takes a running jump and struggles to make it into the window. The cameraman huffs excitedly and there's a second blur of movement and a scuffle. The camera focuses on the ground. It pans up and the cameraman is now right besides the house. They grunt and the camera slowly rises along its side and peaks half way into the window. It's shaky.*

"They were after something."

"How do you know?"

"They told me! They- they said that they came with a purpose. They didn't want to make a mess. That they just wanted...." 

*The boy slowly paces into frame, hands caught in his hair. He looks about the floor anxiously. He freezes. His eyes shoot open wide. He darts down. The screen suddenly pixilates obscuring everything. The audio is distorted, cutting in and out.*

*-ts pro- noth-"

"-s every-"

*The camera settles again, the boy is barely visible. He is staring directly into the camera.*

"Ok. Ok. So they said that once we find it we can find him."

"A children's story book can't possibly lead us to-"

"Once, in a land far far away-"

"Ezra! Listen to yourself! This isn't what they wanted us to find. You need to slow down and think. For JC's sake, man, get a grip!"

"Shut up, shut up! It's not the story! It's...fuck its... The farm. The tree farm. That's it! That's the clue! The Marlooin Family Tree Farm!"

"It's the Maux Family Park now, but what's your point?"

"The scandle, the strange murders, the incident at the mill, the alleged cult that his within those trees. What those assholes wanted wasn't in this book. It was in-"

*The boy steps more into frame and turns towards a book case. He thumbs over the soonest and settles on a scrap book. He pulls it out. He shows it to the unseen girl.*

"This. They came for this."

"Why?"

"Think about it! The Maux Family murders were unusual and inconsistent. But for some reason the local papers didn't publish anything about them. Lauren was a reporter. She wrote pages upon pages with the intent to publish but we saw none of it because all of a sudden larger and better stories were taking the spotlight."

"And?"

"Lauren knows what we don't. She had the secrets and someone interested in her story, some one asking her questions, borrowing her unpublished newspapers. She had a chance to share what never got to see the light. All of a sudden the little family gets broken into and some one gets shot. What's that sound like to you?"

*Silence seperated the two. The boy grows serious, his voice goes quiet. The camera can just barely pick up the audio.*

"The initial police report stated that the shots were fired at no later than 1:23 am. The official coroner report stated that JC died at 4:14. Three hours had passed and no one had called the cops. Brock found him at 9 in the morning. This is a very small neighborhood where the worst thing that's ever happened was when Mr. Fitz locked himself out of his house after Toby caught him with Swagger. So why didn't anybody call the cops?"

"You think the Maux murders have something to do with it?"

"Yes and no. I think the same people trying to cover up the family murders are who we're dealing with.i don't think it's the original murderers themselves though. This seems sloppy. Those murders were made to look like improbable suicides."

"Maybe the differences are important to them. Maybe it is the same people and this time they got surprised and maybe the slip from their usual script was actually scripted."

"Listen, I love you, but now isn't the time for your poetry talk. What are you saying?"

"I think it was the same murderers and they meant for this to happen." 

"Well who ever did it, they did it because of this. And that means that if we solve this, if we can at least get a step ahead of them, then we can find them and bring them down."

"Ezra, be glance won't bring him back."

"I don't want vengeance. I want justice."

"Then why the doctor?"

"...he was unrelated to this. I can....there's something wrong with me and he was supposed to help. He said that if I focused on this then the answers would come."

*The girl's face moves into view. She's skeptical but doesn't bother saying anything. She looks around the room once and her eyes also meet the camera. She freezes.*

"We gotta go."

"What?"

"We gotta go-!"

*The video cuts off* 

[THE FOLLOWING DAY, I RECIEVED A SECOND TAPE]

*The camera is low on battery. A bright light shines on the pine carpeted floor of the Maux Family Park. The camera man is running wildly, cursing and panting as they dodge many obsticales. They drop the camera. It falls and is only able to capture four pairs of boots hurridely running after the long gone camera man. Eighteen minutes pass wherein there is nothing note worthy. Slowly some one barefooted approaches and picks up the camera. They walk, slowly, ever onwards and stop at the base of a towering tree. Some one whispers. The camera distorts, no integeble audio can be made out. A different and strangely familiar voice cuts in.*

"I told you. It only works when I do it. And I figured out that I can cheat. Ahem! And so he walked himself into a dead end. Behind him came the ghosts of his past back to repay their debts. And he found himself frozen in place, unable to speak. He could only watch and wait while the same date he dealt unto others marched closer and closer towards him. The barely of the gun was placed gently to his temple. Now then, I'll grant you one kindness. What do you wish your last words to be?"

"Fuck you!"

*Gunfire. The video cuts out*

[The body of Nick Overton was found lain at the feet of the statue of The Fallen Angel stood in the center of the fountain in town square with this exact video in the form of a VHS tapes. In his own blood the word "marksman" was written across his chest. I don't know who decided either tapes or who sent them to me. I also don't know why they'd send them to me at all. I'm scared.]


End file.
